The music faded away with the singer repeating no way to slow down, leaving a ring in Beth's ears.

"Hey, you've got electricity," Burt said and gestured his empty glass towards the brightly lit window of the shed.

Jethro nodded, and the firelight highlighted the silver strands in his hair. "Sure do. And we're the only ones in the whole cesspit of a town."

A new song started from the shed, much softer this time. The voice of a flute fought its way through the ancient speakers.

"We've got electricity, too," Burt said, grinning.

"Oh." Jethro raised an eyebrow. "And who's you? Where do you come from?"

"Seaside." The pride in Burt's voice was unmistakable.

Beth wondered if divulging that kind of information among these people was a wise idea.

"Ah, the gated village!" Jethro nodded. "So, what are you doing in the city, then?"

"We..." Burt hesitated. "We traveled on the highway when some idiots with bows ambushed us. Captured us... But we got away." He smiled.

"Most people around here are idiots. Do you know who they were?"

"Who cares?" Burt said. "We kicked their asses and ran. They dwell in some kind of stadium. Their boss calls himself Hammer."

"Ah, the Baseballers! No wonder you could escape." Jethro's raw laughter was echoed by the chortles of the others. "Them are brutes. No culture." He pointed his thumb at the shed at its back where the music came from. "No electricity. No gasoline."

The gasoline was something that Beth had been wondering about. She turned to Whitesnake. "How come you've got gasoline? I thought all of what's left of it is stale, useless."

Before Whitesnake could answer, Ozzy cleared his throat. He gestured at the two cylindric tanks next to the square. Each one was at least ten yards across and maybe half as high. "That's the depot. It's still got lots of gasoline."

Beth had guessed so. "This makes sense. But why does the gasoline still work? Isn't it too old?"

"It doesn't work just like that. But we... possess it." Ozzy crossed his arms before his chest and nodded importantly.

"We process it," Whitesnake clarified. "We run it through a distiller." She pointed at the metal contraption of tubes and vessels between the two tanks. "It's a machine like what we use for making this drink here." She held up her glass and looked at it, a small smile on her face. "You heat the old gasoline, kind of cook it. Make the spirits in it rise. And then you catch them... the spirits. Them are still alive and powerful. Them are the soul of the gasoline."

"We even blend it with the drink," Jethro added.

When Beth lowered her glass, he laughed. "No, there's no gasoline spirit in this drink, don't worry. But we add some of our drink to the gasoline for the bikes. It gives'em more strength."

Beth nodded but said nothing. The tale fascinated her, but was it safe to carry the burden of this gang's secrets? She didn't believe in spirits, but the knowledge of how they process the gasoline must be worth a fortune in this world depleted of power. So why would they share?

"You have my word," Jethro said and raised his glass, "there's no gasoline in the drink. So don't offend us and have another one."

Her mind already afloat in the wild magic of the alcohol, Beth knew she'd better refrain. But she didn't want to anger the man. So she raised the glass to her lips and pretended to take another sip. "I shall drink wine and be above vulgar economy," she said as she stared into her glass, more to herself than to anyone else.

Whitesnake chuckled. "Life has led me to the places where the wine and the liquor flow."

Beth wasn't familiar with the quote, and it made her curious. "Where's that from?"

"It's from an old song we have." Whitesnake nodded towards the shed. "But we don't have no wine here. I wouldn't even know what it is."

"It's a drink they used to have," Beth said. "I've never tasted it. I guess it doesn't exist anymore or has become exceedingly rare. Like so many fine things. Culture. Art. Books."

"What's fine about them?" Whitesnake pulled at the long, dark strands growing from one side of her head. "That's shit of the past. It has no place here. This world is about survival. Anything else is ballast. If you wanna stay alive and kicking, you've gotta kick ass."

Beth shook her head, rejecting the thought. "If survival is all you have, you have nothing. And don't you love your old songs there?" She pointed at the shed. "That is culture, too. Civilization."

Whitesnake just shrugged.

As the evening matured, more bottles of the liquor appeared. Food was brought in—meats Beth did not dare ask about and tough, bitter vegetables. The talk turned to matters less fraught with secrets and lore. They discussed music, and Burt's knowledge of what he called rock 'n' roll surprised Beth. She hadn't been aware of him listening to that kind of songs, and these Bikers seemed to thrive on it.

They also talked about Beth's and Burt's plans to get across the river and to cut through the wastelands to the West of it. The Blue Bloods, as the gang called themselves, promised their support.

"The bridge is ours," Jethro said. "And it's the only safe path across the river. Its water is venom, it kills quickly and without mercy." He laughed and raised his glass. "Now, turn up the music!"

Pat nodded and walked over to the shed. Moments later, the sound of electric guitars washed over the square.

A gray-haired couple got up and started dancing. Others joined them.

Beth adored dancing—the light elegance of the ancient waltz and the dark sensuality of the rhumba never failed to touch her. Yet the Bikers' music called for different moves, wilder ones. She found herself in Burt's arms, tossed left and right to the rhythm of dark drums and angry guitars.

Whitesnake danced with Ozzy, and the two of them seemed to know the moves. He kept sending her into twirls, which made her laugh.

Jethro had grabbed the serving girl Pat and held her close to him. His hand under her skirts and against her buttocks had pulled the garment up, exposing one leg. She was tall enough for him to comfortably press his face against her full breasts. The couple swayed back and forth gently.

"Oh, look at them!" Burt pulled Beth against him.

"Drunk they are," she said.

"And so are we."

She couldn't but agree. The drink had worked its way into her arms and mind, rendering them weak and inert.

The music changed, and now a woman was singing something about 'we are young.'

Jethro and the girl turned, slowly, and when he faced Beth and Burt, he detached his nose from the girl's breasts. "Love is a battlefield!" he chanted, in tune with the melody.

Burt laughed. "Yes, man, and we're strong." He grasped Beth's hair and pulled her head back.

The tug was on the verge of painful.

Jethro laughed. "And when in battle, you take what's yours." With that, Jethro grasped the girl's hair, too, imitating Burt's movement, and then he pulled her face down to his and kissed her.

The thought of kissing that old man's mouth made Beth gag, and then she felt Burt's lips on hers. The unfettered spirits of the drinks and the desolation of old sweat came with his touch. She couldn't but push him away.

"Don't," she said, "not now."

"But, Beth." He pulled her towards him again. "This is the perfect night. We're young, wild, and free."

Were they free? She glanced over to Jethro, who still had his fist in Pat's curly, thick hair, but his one-eyed stare was on Beth and Burt as if probing them.

"What are you waiting for, Burt?" he yelled. "Show us how you Gaters do it!"

"This is how we do it!" Burt reached for Beth's buttocks and lifted her, his fingers firm between her legs.

Too stunned to react, Beth found herself being carried to the shed and pressed against a wooden pillar holding up its roof.

Cheers erupted from the people.

With the light of the fire from behind him, she couldn't see Burt's face. His exploring hands moved quickly as if driven by the flames of passion and urge. They hitched up her skirt.

"No," she said. "Don't—"

His lips stopped her words, but not with pleasure.

She pushed him away.

He grasped her hand. "Come on, don't be a prude."

As he tried to kiss her again, she brought up her knee.